


banish the darkness

by AliuIce0814



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen, clint and sam are steve's therapists, clint-bucky parallels, gratuitous use of latin, how d'you like that catholic guilt?, incidental clintasha, small children like fire, steve rogers goes to mass, war flashbacks to the days before vatican ii, winter soldier spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:53:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve knows he doesn't deserve mercy, but Bucky sure does.</p><p>Steve goes to Mass post-CA:TWS. Someone unexpected shows up. Steve dares to hope again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	banish the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with this fic while I was enjoying my three-days-straight of superintense churchgoing. I've done my best to clarify terms. Tell me if anything's confusing.
> 
> Mentions of canon brainwashing, and talk of torture/death that goes along with Easter. 
> 
> Beta'd by my mum, who was Catholic even before Vatican II. I don't know how she dealt with all that Latin.

Steve slides into a pew just before the opening hymn starts. He feels a little guilty leaving Sam and Natasha alone in the apartment, but he’d feel even guiltier if he missed Holy Thursday Mass. Bucky hasn’t made a move yet. They know he’s still in town. He goes to the same café every morning and sits. Never orders a coffee. Never reads the paper. Just sits and stares into the distance the way he did for weeks in ’43 after Steve pulled him free of Hydra’s lab table. Every morning, Steve wants to go to him. Every morning, Natasha stops him with a hand on his arm. They go back to the apartment where Sam waits with enough eggs and bacon to feed the Commandos. Steve broods. Steve prays.

            He can’t really focus on Holy Thursday Mass. He tries at first but gives up quickly. How many Masses has he been to? Mass every day when he was in school at St. Francis, Bucky elbowing him and whispering “Steve!" until one of the nuns dragged him away by his ear. Steve stares around at the unfamiliar church. St. Francis is long gone. Someone told him they cleared it away in the ‘70s to make room for more apartments. The St. Mary he’s at looks just like St. Francis did, though; its stained glass windows, their colors slowly fading to black as the sun sets, strike the same awe in Steve as they did when he was a kid. Elaborately painted statues marking the stations of the cross hang on the walls. When he looks up, Jesus watches him with infinitely sad eyes, buckling under the weight of the cross. Steve’s skin prickles. He looks away.

            The washing of the feet holds Steve’s attention for a while. Twelve parishioners represent the twelve disciples. One of the twelve is a girl who can’t be more than three years old. She clutches a doll tightly and giggles as the priest carefully pours water over one of her feet. Someone in the back of the church says “aww.” Steve studies his hands so no one will see him smiling.

            Sit, stand, kneel—at least the motions of the Mass haven’t changed in seventy years. The words are different in English, or maybe Steve’s grasp on Latin was shakier than he thought. He appreciates the sentiment of the language change. It’s always best to understand the orders you’re following. But still—when he thinks of Mass, he thinks of Sundays spent squirming on the kneeler, his mom covering his eyes with one hand so he couldn’t see the faces Bucky pulled. “ _Domine, non sum dignus_ ,” Mom said from above him. Steve pulled himself up to see the priest and lisped along. “Lord, I am not worthy…”

            And he’s not. God, Steve knows he’s not.

            He takes Communion anyway. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s in a state of mortal sin. There are men he could have chosen to injure instead of kill, and Bucky, Christ help him, Bucky—Steve takes Communion anyway because it’s like wearing a fleece blanket. “What a good boy,” Mom told him when she fixed his tie before his First Communion. “Don’t let Bucky cause trouble.” Across the room, Bucky scuffed his brand-new shoes on the marble floor. When Steve made eye contact, Bucky grinned. “And don’t cause any trouble yourself, Steven Grant!”

            _No, Mom,_ Steve thinks as he stands in his pew. _I’m trying._

            Steve jolts out of his memories when a voice beside him starts singing in Latin. “ _Pange lingua gloriosi_ …” It’s barely more than a whisper, but Steve hears the rough sound over the choir, over the rest of the parish. He goes still. He knows that voice like he knows his own. _But he hates church_ , Steve thinks. Slowly, he looks to his right.

            Bucky’s eyes are fixed forward. He’s wearing a sweater that’s got to be too hot for the weather. It covers all of his metal arm but the fingertips. Steve wants to reach out and touch him to be sure he’s real. After all this chasing, all this time, Bucky’s right here? Now?  It can’t be real. Steve’s hallucinating or—or he doesn’t know what, but Bucky can’t be here.

            The procession with the Eucharist passes their pew. Bucky follows. Steve follows him. Bucky’s walking funny: stiffly, methodically, like someone just taught him how to do it. Did Hydra’s brainwashing run so deep that Bucky constantly had to relearn how to walk? Steve balls his hands into fists. He forces his shoulders to relax. He’s at church. He can’t be so angry. He’s at church, and Bucky’s at church, and— _thank you_ , Steve remembers to pray. _Thank you, thank you, thank you, please let him stay, God. I know I don’t deserve it, but Bucky sure does_.

            Bucky stops by the altar so abruptly that Steve nearly runs into him. The crowd spills around them, surrounding the altar where the Body and Blood rest. Steve swallows. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t talk to Bucky, not right now, not with all these people around. He can’t afford to spook him. Bucky still hasn’t made eye contact. He’s not really looking at anything, not even the altar. His eyes are unfocused as he mumbles the words. Steve finds himself mumbling along. “Sight is blind before God’s glory, faith alone may see His face.”

            The chant dies away. Another song replaces it, one Steve doesn’t recognize. Bucky shifts his weight. When Steve looks over at him, Bucky’s eyes are trained on the floor. Steve fixes his eyes on the gold-plated chalice and stubbornly ignores the way his eyes burn.

            When this song ends, the crowd filters away in silence. Some return to their pews to kneel. Others make a break for the freedom of the brisk night. Bucky shoulders past Steve. By the time Steve turns to follow him, Bucky’s gone.

            Steve rides his motorcycle back to the apartment in a haze. Sam’s waiting up for him in the kitchen. He frowns when he sees Steve’s stricken expression. “What happened, man?”

            Steve shakes his head, trying to get his mind to work again. “He was there.”

            Sam’s eyes widen. “He—”

            “Bucky, yeah. Bucky was at Mass.”

            Sam stays quiet while he pours Steve a cup of coffee. Steve’s grateful for something to hold, at least. The caffeine doesn’t affect him. “So,” Sam says finally. “Guess you’re going back tomorrow night.”

…

Steve doesn’t need as much sleep as the others. Someone needs to stay up and keep watch. He sits on the couch with his shield beside him. He turns his mother’s rosary over and over in his hands. She gave it to him for his Confirmation. They’d known by then that she was sick. Steve hadn’t wanted the rosary. He thought it meant his mom was giving up. That was before he understood that she was going to die whether she gave up or not. The red beads are beautiful, cool and surprisingly heavy against his palm. They still smell faintly of Mom’s perfume.

            “Still up praying?” Sam steps into the room, yawning. “Trying to do what Jesus’ disciples couldn’t?”

            “I always felt bad for him. He’s in that garden, so scared he’s sweating blood, and all his friends fall asleep. They can’t even stay awake for him.”

            The couch sinks as Sam sits beside Steve. “Yeah, but they didn’t know what was going on. They just came from a party. They figured it was like any other night. You’re a good pessimistic Catholic, I’ll give you that.” Sam bumps shoulders with Steve. “You gotta come to church with me Sunday morning. We Baptists’ll show you a good time. We’re gonna get you to sing and maybe say ‘amen’ a couple times. Y’know, like you’re celebrating.” Even without looking up, Steve knows Sam’s grinning. “Gotta get you to smile sometime.”

            “Don’t really feel like smiling.”

            “Come on. It’s Easter.”

            “It’s not Easter yet.” Steve wraps the rosary around his fingers. “Okay, I’ll go with you. But I’m going to go to Easter Vigil Mass on Saturday. I have to take Communion on Easter.”

            “Good. I’m going to get you to smile.” Sam claps Steve’s shoulder as he stands. “Get some sleep. Jesus is gonna rise whether you stay up all night or not.”

            Steve waits until Sam’s out of the room before he says, “It’s not him I’m worrying about coming back.”

…

            Bucky’s not at the café that morning. Natasha’s convinced he’s skipped town. Steve’s not so sure. “Let me go to church tonight,” he says, and then spends the rest of the day pacing the apartment. Clint shows up at noon with three grocery bags full of eggs. Sam takes charge of hard-boiling them while Clint and Natasha change into ratty pajamas and watch _It’s the Easter Beagle, Charlie Brown_.

Steve focuses on the film in bits and pieces. Whenever he tries to help in the kitchen, Sam threatens to throw raw eggs at his head. Steve goes back into the living room so the landlord can’t blame him for dried egg on the wall. Clint laughs so hard at one of the animated kids that Coca-Cola spurts out his nose. Natasha shrieks like a teenager. When she thumps Clint on the back, her shirt rides up, exposing the stretched white scar left by the Winter Soldier’s bullet. Steve locks himself in his room and prays. He can’t quite stop shaking.

            He gets to church thirty minutes early. The few people there are silent the way you’re supposed to be on Good Friday. Steve sits in the same pew as the night before and bows his head. He has no words for God. He can’t think of any. It doesn’t seem quite right to ask Jesus favors on the day He died. Anyway, what would Steve ask for? God knows his heart. He knows what he wants. Bucky was here last night. Steve should be grateful for that.

            _Please bring him back. Please let him remember._

            At exactly seven, as the priest and deacons start their way up the center aisle, someone sits beside Steve. Steve doesn’t look up. He knows from the way the pew moves that it’s Bucky. Steve’s stomach churns. He glances over at Bucky. Bucky’s head jerks so he’s facing front. Steve sits up straighter. Bucky was looking at him first. That’s got to be a start.

            The service seems to confuse Bucky. Whether he’s completely the Winter Soldier, completely James Buchanan Barnes, or somewhere in between, Steve doesn’t blame him. Ordinary Masses are confusing enough now that everything is in English. He doesn’t know what to do with himself at a service that isn’t even technically a Mass. He stands when everyone else stands and sits when they sit. Bucky does the same. It’s their best bet.

            The choir sings the gospel. That’s enough to catch Steve’s attention for a minute. He can’t quite understand what they’re saying, but he gets the gist of it. He’s only heard Christ’s Passion a million times. It always makes his ears burn. “Don’t be ashamed. God loves you,” Mom told him when he was eight and in tears about it. But how’s Steve not supposed to feel guilty? He hates seeing good men hurt. To think of God reduced to someone nailed to a cross—Steve’s been shot, he’s been beaten, he knows that pain. Imagining it done to someone who’s not a soldier, to someone who’s never done anything wrong—it makes him feel a little sick.

            Bucky stares at the choir, lips parted in fascination. Steve watches him instead of watching the service. Steve can tell from watching Bucky that he’s not all there, but he can tell by the loose set of his shoulders that he’s not the Winter Soldier, either. He’s stuck in some twilight zone. Steve fights the urge to drag Bucky out of church and put him somewhere safe.

            Three altar boys—no, servers is what they’re called now, two of them are girls—carry a massive wooden cross to the front of the church. Steve could lift it for them easily. They manage their burden well, though. The priest at St. Francis didn’t want Steve to help carry the cross the year Bucky did. Steve was too ill, the priest didn’t want to risk—Bucky pulled himself up to his full height, a foot taller than Steve back then, and said, “I won’t carry that cross without Steve.”

Bucky was dead serious on the Good Friday he and Steve carried the cross. Steve could tell Bucky was shouldering most of the weight. It drove him nuts—this was his cross to bear, too—but there was no way to tell Bucky to cut it out when they were supposed to be silent. After Mass, a couple of older kids jumped Steve in the alley outside church. Bucky dragged them away. “I had them on the ropes,” Steve said through bloody teeth. Normally, Bucky would roll his eyes, tell Steve “yeah, yeah.” That Friday, he slung an arm over Steve’s shoulders and kept it there the rest of the way home.

“Come, let us worship,” the priest today says. Steve stands. Bucky shoots to his feet. He shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear water out of his ears. Steve bites his lip to keep from saying, _You okay, Buck?_ He asks it with his eyes instead. Bucky looks at him warily before following the person from the pew in front of them up to the cross.

            The line to the cross seems to go on forever. Steve’s caught between impatience and the sense that this moment should stretch out forever. Bucky stares around at the crowd with narrowed eyes. Steve can’t tell if he’s slipping back into the Winter Soldier persona or if he’s just spooked. He throws caution to the wind and nudges shoulders with him. Bucky flinches and looks at Steve sharply. Steve doesn’t blink. Bucky’s gaze is feral. The Winter Soldier. Steve calculates how fast he can run to his bike to get his shield, how much damage Bucky can do in that time. Steve knows he can’t do enough to protect these people. On Good Friday of all days, Christ have mercy—

            Just like that, the moment passes. The wildness leaves Bucky’s eyes. He relaxes. He rests his shoulder against Steve’s as he looks away. The line edges forward. Bucky shuffles along. Steve takes a deep breath to keep his heart from banging out of his ribcage.

            Bucky moves forward and stops abruptly. Steve nearly trips. They’re at the cross now. Steve’s face burns. He’s here to think about Jesus, to remember his sacrifice, and here he can’t stop thinking about Bucky long enough to focus. He’s coming up with an apologetic prayer when Bucky makes a strangled sound. His expression is unrecognizable. That’s Bucky’s face, but not Bucky-ish fear. Bucky’s never been that pale or that wild.

 Bucky reaches out his flesh-and-blood hand. He stops just short of brushing his fingers against the wood of the cross.

The moment hangs suspended. Bucky reaches. Steve prays.

            Bucky’s arm drops. He shoves past Steve, pushing his way through the crowd and bolting out of the church. Steve flinches when the door bangs. A woman with carefully permed white hair looks at him pityingly. She’s almost Peggy.

            Steve rests his forehead on the cross. The wood’s cool against his skin. His chest aches. The crowd moves around him.

…

            The smell of sulfur hits Steve as soon as he stumbles into the apartment. “Eggs,” Clint says helpfully. He’s wearing bright purple bunny ears. “Hey, you okay?”

            “He was there again.” Natasha isn’t asking. Steve nods. Natasha looks vaguely impressed. “You were right. What did he say?”

            Steve shakes his head. “Nothing.”

            “Hey, that’s okay. I didn’t feel much like talking after Loki was in my head.” Clint shoves an entire hard-boiled egg in his mouth. Steve stares at him. Clint stares back without blinking.

Steve feels like an idiot. Of course that’s why Clint’s here, not just because he and Natasha are together. How many people does Steve know who were brainwashed other than Bucky? Two. Both of them are in the kitchen right now, fighting over who gets to dye the next Easter egg. Natasha flicks purple dye on Clint’s face. Clint wrinkles his nose. “Thanks,” Steve says. The word sticks in his throat.

            Clint shrugs. He can’t say anything around the egg in his mouth, but Steve guesses he wouldn’t anyway. He tries to think of things to ask Clint now that he’s here. His mind is blank. He feels worn, raw. God’s dead—no, Jesus is dead, but Jesus is God, and—he died for Steve’s sake and that’s not fair because Steve doesn’t deserve—Bucky does. Bucky deserves to be saved. Bucky was so close to being himself but still so far away.

            “Hey,” Sam says, coming in from the bathroom. His arms are splotched with dye all the way up to his elbows. He goes around the counter and grins at Steve, easy and sure. “You’re an artist, right? Dye some eggs. Show off your skills.”

            Steve wants to say no. Natasha gives him a pointed look. He’s fought alongside her for the past few months. He knows how well she can coerce people when she puts her mind to it. He sighs. “Okay.” He kicks off his shoes and sits on a bar stool. The dye turns the tips of his fingers red.

…

            Steve closes his eyes, and Bucky fights, and Bucky falls.

            Steve wakes up. Sam talks him down.

            Steve closes his eyes, and Bucky kicks him at church, and Bucky screams, and Bucky’s arm is metal.

            Steve wakes up. Natasha talks him down.

            Steve closes his eyes, and Bucky says _this isn’t a back alley, Steve,_ and Bucky steals Communion wafers and says _let’s try ‘em, Stevie_ , and Bucky calls him _punk,_ and Bucky looks at him with dead, dead eyes and says _who the hell is Bucky?_

            Steve wakes up. Clint hands him a cup of coffee. “Me too,” he says, clinking their mugs. “Caffeine do anything for you, Cap?” Steve shakes his head. The coffee scalds his mouth, but he drinks it anyway. The burns heal right now. “Damn shame. No alcohol, either?”

            Steve laughs humorlessly. “Believe me, I tried.”

            “So they put you in a war and took away your coping mechanisms. America.” Clint sips his coffee and winces. Steve wants to protest that it’s not America’s fault the serum works the way it does, that it’s not America’s fault the Nazis wanted to screw up the whole world, that it’s not America’s fault Bucky fell. But Pierce was American, and Sitwell was American, and all those Hydra agents infiltrating SHIELD were damn American. Steve loosens his grip on his mug before he cracks it. Clint clears his throat. “You’ve gotta meet him halfway.”

            Steve blinks. “Bucky?”

            Clint nods. “He’s not gonna be lucid all the time. Not yet. He probably can’t be. If he was, he’d remember all the bullshit Hydra made him do, and, well. That’s always fun.”

            “So…what? His mind’s forgetting things on purpose?”

            “Something like that, yeah. He’s not gonna be the same guy on the other side. He’ll never be the same guy.”

            “Is that how it was for you?”

            “Is. Yeah.” Clint squints at the ceiling. “Tasha thought I wouldn’t want to help. I…s’pose I should do something, though. If you’re trying to help someone who’s been brainwashed, you should probably ask someone who’s been brainwashed for advice.”

            Steve takes another drink of coffee. “Natasha…”

            “Don’t.” Clint looks at Steve sternly. “If she doesn’t offer, don’t ask. She’s starting to really trust you.”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah. I’d be jealous, but she says you kiss like a virgin, so.”

            Steve tries to protest, but all he can manage is a mangled squawk as his face burns red. Clint laughs. There’s no trace of insanity there, just Clint being a jerk. Something loosens in Steve’s chest.

…

            “You sure you don’t want me to go?”

            Steve waves Sam off. “I know how you feel about pessimistic Catholics.”

            “Hey, I’m not trying to dis your entire religion. I’m just saying you could use a little more energy. Look alive.”

            “Tasha wants to go,” Clint says, not looking up from fletching an arrow. Natasha throws an Easter basket at his head. It rests there like a hat. Clint grins. “Don’t you, Tash?”

            “I’ll go to Easter Vigil when you go to Pascha. In Russia. Every. Single. Year.”

            “No. No. Once was enough. Once was more than enough. A whole night of church, Rogers, you have no idea.”

            “Not just your three hours,” Natasha scoffs. “All night.”

            “All night.” Clint shudders. “No amount of fire can make up for that.”

            Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t let them know it, but a whole night of church sounds awful even to him. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ll be alone.”

            Natasha looks doubtful. Sam doesn’t say a word. Clint lifts his head and stares Steve down. “Remember what I said.”

            _Meet him halfway._ Steve nods. He ignores the way his stomach jitters as he makes his way to church.

            There’s a bonfire on the sidewalk outside the church. A few kids circle it curiously while the deacon guarding it tries to shoo them away. Steve tries not to think about the fact that those kids will be holding lit candles for thirty minutes straight. He climbs the stairs into church and then stops short.

            Bucky’s already sitting in the pew that Steve now thinks of as his pew. Steve walks up the aisle slowly. He keeps his steps deliberately loud so Bucky knows he’s coming. Bucky looks up when Steve stops by the pew. His eyes are clearer than before, and he’s wearing a clean shirt. Steve hopes. “Can I sit here?” he asks. Bucky frowns. He stares at Steve a little incredulously before nodding. Steve makes sure to smile when he sits beside Bucky. “Thanks.”

            Bucky’s still frowning. He nods once.

            Steve stares around at the strikingly painted statues in their nooks. Mary watches from above the altar, her arms outstretched. For three days she thought her son was dead, and then she saw him face-to-face. Steve thinks she must understand what he feels like with Bucky sitting beside him quietly. He prays, _Hail Mary, thank you thank you thank you._

            One by one, the lights go off in the church. Soon, only Mary’s illuminated, the light casting shadows on her blue mantle from below. She’s stunning in the way Steve’s mom was stunning. She must be kind in the way Steve’s mom was kind, too. If Steve asks her, she’ll tell her son how much it means to Steve that Bucky’s here.

Bucky lifts his head and looks around. For threats? Steve wonders. Or is he just curious? They never went to vigil Mass as kids. Steve went once during the war while he was in France, but it was nothing as grand as this. Everything seems to echo more in the dark. One of the deacons clips on his microphone and tells everyone to go outside. The kids in the church jump up and tug at their parents’ arms. “Candles!” the little girl who got her feet washed on Holy Thursday yelps. Bucky huffs. Way back when, Steve would have counted it as a laugh.

            Outside, the flames flicker. The sun’s down, but the sky’s still streaked pink. Birds chirp and flutter from tree to tree. Somewhere down the street, someone’s bass thumps. The church’s bells ring the hour, then toll again, calling everyone to Mass. Bucky studies the crowd uncomfortably. He moves closer to Steve until their shoulders brush. Steve stands up straighter. If he looks around at all the other parishioners challengingly, well, he’s not doing it on purpose. He’s just watching Bucky’s back.  

            The Easter candle is blessed and lit. Steve clasps his hands and watches Bucky watching the priest. Bucky’s hair is still too long, but Steve recognizes him in the way the corner of his mouth tilts up even when his eyes are serious. This is Bucky, Steve thinks wonderingly. He’s the closest he’s been to being himself since Steve found out he was alive.

They follow the Easter candle back into the church. The light throws the rest of the church into sharp contrast. The woman in front of Steve lights his candle for him. Bucky shuffles into the pew beside Steve and holds out his unlit candle like an offering. Steve lights it carefully. The people behind them are waiting, Steve knows. Bucky doesn’t move. “C’mon, Bucky, pass it back,” Steve whispers. Bucky’s eyes widen. He looks between his candle and their neighbors’ candles and barely shakes his head. Steve forces himself to give Bucky a reassuring smile. “Okay. I’ve got this.” Steve lights the candles. He doesn’t miss the curious look the other people give Bucky. His jaw tightens. Bucky’s fine. Just a little nervous, that’s all. Just a little scared of himself.

            It seems like Mass will go just fine. Steve’s just as fascinated by the flickering light in the church as Bucky is. The long shadows make the church’s arches seem even taller than usual. Steve wonders at the architecture. He’s never tried to make a blueprint, but if Stark can design that big ugly building in New York, surely Steve can create something more beautiful. He wonders if he could build a replica of old St. Francis. The pillars here at St. Mary look so—

            There’s a screech that sounds like a scream. _Missile_ , Steve thinks, almost yells, even while the rational part of his brain tells him that it’s just the deacon’s microphone malfunctioning. Steve catches his candle before it hits the floor. The people behind him laugh nervously.

            That’s when he realizes Bucky is gone.

            Steve doesn’t give a damn if it’s the middle of the most important Mass of the year. He runs for the back of the church, ready to sprint out into the middle of the street to catch up with Bucky. Instead, he nearly runs into him at the very back of church. Bucky’s eyes are huge in his shadowed face. He bares his teeth. “ракета,” he spits.

            “That’s just the microphone. It’s not a missile. It’s not a bomb. Bucky, no.” Steve holds up his hands. People are probably looking. God has to be looking. This is church. This is where God lives. If God can see Bucky’s here… _Meet him halfway,_ Clint said. Steve drops to a crouch, then sits on the cold marble floor. Bucky watches him with uncomprehending eyes. No, no, he was just okay. He was just fine. Steve has to make sure he’s fine again. He has to meet him halfway. “I’m going to stay right here,” Steve says. “You can stay…or go.” _Please stay._

            Slowly, nervously, Bucky sits beside Steve. When Steve moves to steady his candle, Bucky shies away. Steve stops. “A mighty wind swept over the waters,” the lector reads. Six-year-old Bucky colored Steve’s caricatures of the nuns while their first-grade teacher made them memorize what God created on each day. Bucky now stares at the candle in his trembling hands. Steve forces himself to pay attention to the reading to give Bucky time to bounce back. Bucky always hated having attention drawn to his weaknesses.

            The people sing a psalm. The priest asks them to stand and pray. Bucky doesn’t move, so Steve doesn’t either. _Please bring him back to himself,_ he prays. _What’s the point of resurrection if he can’t remember?_

The second reading begins. Bucky’s head jerks up when God asks Abraham to sacrifice his son. “Why?” Bucky rasps. “Why?”

            Steve shakes his head. He’s not sure if Bucky remembers the ending or not. Bucky stays stock-still until God sends an angel to tell Abraham that Isaac can live after all. Even once Bucky relaxes, the corners of his mouth turn down.

            The people sing a psalm. The priest asks them to stand and pray. Bucky doesn’t move, so Steve doesn’t either. Bucky’s still mouthing the words to the psalm, though the singing has ended. Steve wonders if he has to translate the words to Russian to understand.

            The third reading is Exodus. Mom used to call wading through the crowd of children to get to Steve and Bucky at the end of the school day “parting the Red Sea.” Steve grabbed Mom’s hand, Bucky grabbed Steve’s shoulders, and as a train they wound their way out of the schoolyard. Bucky’s frown disappears. Steve wants to elbow him, to ask him if he remembers. He keeps his mouth shut.

            The people sing a psalm. Bucky mumbles the words. Steve sings along. He doesn’t think he can carry a tune, but that doesn’t matter in church. God doesn’t care. When the priest asks them to stand and pray, Bucky sits up straighter.

            The fourth reading trickles by. Steve doesn’t pretend to understand Isaiah. Bucky never did. He peels off bits of candle wax and rolls them between his fingers. Steve sneaks a look at the people in the pews. No one is watching them. He drips wax onto his fingers and makes shapes with it. When he looks over at Bucky, Bucky’s lips quirk upward.

            Then the Gloria starts, the organ nearly blasting them out of the church. Everyone sings loudly enough to make up for forty days of silence, forty days of penitence. One by one, the lights come on: first the ones over the choir, then the ones over the priest, then the ones over the congregation. The last light illuminates Mary again. She’s wondrous in her blue mantel, her foot stamping the serpent. The church seems brighter than it did the night before. It’s the same electric lights as always, but after the candles, the new light nearly blinds Steve. From the way Bucky blinks, it stuns him, too. He gives his lit candle a rueful look and blows it out. Steve moves to do the same. Bucky beats him to it.

            Steve stares at the smoke spiraling from his candle for a good minute. Bucky did that. Bucky blew out Steve’s candle knowing full well it was Steve’s candle. He always tried to do it on Steve’s birthday, claiming Steve’s asthmatic lungs were too weak to handle blowing out all those wishes. Steve always told him off for it: “What a jerk. Those are my candles.” When Steve looks at Bucky, Bucky’s pointedly looking away. Steve’s heart thuds faster than it should. “Jerk,” he whispers shakily. Bucky looks further away and doesn’t respond.

            Steve’s stunned all the way through the gospel. The tomb is empty, Christ is risen, and Bucky Barnes is teasing Steve Rogers. Steve’s so full of mixed-up hope and fear that he feels sick.

            When the Litany of Saints begins, Steve rolls his eyes. He feels a little guilty about it, but he remembers it from when he was a kid, and it always took forever. Bucky’s suddenly pinched expression indicates he remembers the same thing. Steve knocks elbows with him. After a second, Bucky nudges back.

            “Saint Mary, pray for us. Saint Joseph, pray for us. Saint Michael, pray for us. Saint Ignatius, pray for us…” On and on and on. Steve’s pretty sure the choir’s making up some of the names to burn time. “Saint Stephen, pray for us.”

            “That’s you,” Bucky says. His voice is flat, but his eyes are clear. Steve wants to correct him: he’s not a saint, nowhere near a saint. He doesn’t.

            “Saint James, pray for us.”

            “That’s you,” Steve says. Bucky looks like he wants to fight it. He doesn’t.

            Someone’s going to be baptized; ten someones are going to be confirmed. That’s why Easter Vigil lasts so long. They’re at the hour-and-a-half mark when Bucky starts fidgeting. Steve plays with a bit of wax he kept in his pocket. He cares, he really cares about Jesus, but if he has to hear one more saint’s name, he’ll go insane. The singing finally stops. Bucky makes a “whoosh” sound. Steve barely nods.

“Do you reject Satan?” the priest asks.

            “I do,” the man who’s about to be baptized says so loudly that Steve can hear him clear in the back. Bucky stays silent.

It’s not until the Presentation of Gifts that Bucky stands awkwardly and edges back up the aisle to their pew. Steve makes sure Bucky gets the outside in case he needs to run again.

            Sit, stand, kneel—Steve knows the motions by heart, and Bucky’s either remembering or relearning. Once, Steve catches him saying something in Latin. He elbows him for old times’ sake. Bucky scowls and adds an extra word to the end of the Latin. It could be nothing, but Steve’s pretty sure it’s “punk.” He ducks his head and smiles so hard his cheeks hurt.

            Steve forgets about the Our Father until it happens. Someone from across the aisle reaches for Bucky’s hand. Bucky shies away, eyes wide. Steve holds out his hand, palm up. The way they’re standing, Steve will have to hold Bucky’s metal hand. Steve doesn’t care. Does Bucky?

            Bucky drops his hand into Steve’s. He keeps his other hand limp. The person from across the aisle doesn’t seem to mind. They hold on anyway. Bucky’s stiff through the whole ordeal. So is Steve. He gets to “Thy will be done” before Bucky starts crushing his hand. Steve winces but doesn’t fight it. He refuses to let the strain sound in his voice. Bucky stops just short of breaking bones. Steve worries for a moment about the person holding Bucky’s other hand, but when Steve shakes hands with them, they smile as if nothing happened. Bucky lurks behind Steve, eyes clouded.

            “Lamb of God,” the choir sings. Steve takes in the tightness in Bucky’s shoulders and whispers, “ _Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi_.” Long school Masses on his knees, the position making it even harder for him to get in a good breath. Bucky beside him singing twice as loud so the nuns wouldn’t catch Steve’s silence.

            Bucky wets his lips. “ _Miserere nobis_.”

            _“Dona nobis pacem.”_

            The Communion line is slow and long. The Eucharist is the reason Steve came to Mass tonight, but he’d skip it if Bucky did. If Bucky leaves now, so will Steve. Bucky’s handled this Mass better than anybody could have asked of him. Three hours of Mass, three hours surrounded by strangers—the Winter Soldier could never stand it. Steve can see the edges of Bucky fraying. If Bucky wants to leave, Steve will follow him.

Bucky glances back at Steve before stepping into line. He always used to walk behind Steve just to blow on the back of his neck and annoy him. Steve resists the urge to try it now that their positions are reversed. After a second, Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. Steve’s chest tightens. So Bucky won’t take the Eucharist, but he’ll ask for God’s blessing. That’s okay. That’s better than nothing. God understands. The many statues of Jesus watch them, eyes gentle, pained, kind, sad. Jesus understands Bucky. Jesus understands.

            Steve is so worried about Bucky that he almost forgets to hold out his hands for the Eucharist. He goes back to their pew, crunching on a wafer that tastes like cardboard. Some things never change.

            That’s when he realizes Bucky’s gone.

            _He’s just outside,_ Steve tells himself. _He’s just outside waiting. He’ll be by my bike. He’ll be there. He’s okay. Bucky’s fine. He’s okay—Christ, let him be okay. Don’t let him run. Please, please, please let him stay. Please let him be back for good._

The organ blasts; the choir sings. Steve waits just until the priest is down the center aisle before he runs. He jumps down the stairs outside the church and rounds the corner, heart pounding in his ears. There’s his bike—

            There’s no Bucky.

            Steve circles the church, calling Bucky’s name. He waits until the church is empty and dark again and whispers his name in there. There’s no response. Steve’s eyes burn. This isn’t fair. Bucky was just here. He was just safe with Steve. Why would God give him back just to take him away?

            Steve doesn’t want to give up, but he knows there’s no point in looking. If the Winter Soldier doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found. Tonight was just a fluke, just…Steve doesn’t know what. He takes the long way back to the apartment, taking corners too sharply on his bike. He came all this way for nothing. He knows he should feel joy, consuming joy—Christ is risen! Alleluia! All he feels is grief deep in his bones. Is Christ risen? Is that real? Was Bucky even there tonight?

            The lights are on outside the apartment when Steve parks his bike. He trudges up the stairs. His tongue feels like lead. He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Sam and Natasha. Saying that Bucky was there makes the fact that he left hurt more. Maybe he’ll lie, even if the words taste like bile. Maybe…

            Sam opens the door just as Steve reaches it. “Hey, man.” His voice is strangled. Steve stands up straight, suddenly afraid. “Nah, I’m fine, everyone’s fine. It’s just…there’s somebody waiting for you.”

            Steve follows Sam in. He doesn’t dare to hope, even when the feeling crowds his chest. He can’t be let down again, not tonight of all nights. He can’t quite believe—

            Bucky sits at the kitchen counter. His shoulders are hunched. He looks up at Steve with wide, blue, clear Bucky eyes.

            Steve nearly falls to his knees.  

**Author's Note:**

> Holy Thursday is the celebration of the night Jesus was betrayed, specifically of the meal he shared with his disciples, in which he instituted the Eucharist. 
> 
> Good Friday is the memorial of Christ's death. 
> 
> Easter Vigil is the coolest Mass ever. It's celebrated the night before Easter. Pascha is the Russian Orthodox celebration similar to Easter Vigil in its candlelit aspect but MUCH LONGER. This is saying something considering Easter Vigil is three hours long on average. Pascha lasts all night. 
> 
> Bucky's one-word Russian should mean "missile". I used Google Translate. 
> 
> I can't remember other things that needed to be explained. If you're confused about anything, ask me, and I'll add it to the list. I really hope you enjoyed this story! I just REALLY LOVE STEVEN GRANT ROGERS AND JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, OKAY.


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